Battlefield Earth
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Just a week after defying Heaven and Hell, Hell has decided they want their demon back … (Warning for mention of blood and injuries, angst) Aziraphale x Crowley


**_Written for the inbox prompt - _For the prompt list, can I request "Is that blood?" for GO? Thank you so much! I love your work**

"I thought you said they'd leave us alone!" Aziraphale scolds to keep his mind off everything going on right now – the buildings burning behind them, innocent victims of defensive magic gone awry; the sword in his hands, its fire blazing bright, but its weight becoming unbearable; and, most alarming, the searing pain in his chest, one that intensifies with every step he takes over the uneven ground, the coarsely broken asphalt.

"I said they'd leave us be for a _little while_!" Crowley calls over his shoulder, comparably in much better condition than his companion. Of course, the horde that attacked had been comprised of demons, not angels. They didn't like Crowley. They considered him a traitor. But they feared and respected him more than they did Aziraphale. Plus, they weren't trying to kill him. They were trying to _wound_ him. They had orders to bring him back to Beelzebub alive.

That didn't necessarily mean in one piece.

On the other hand, the angel is his weakness. They know that. Take him down and Crowley would falter eventually.

"It's only been a _week_!" Aziraphale squeaks.

"Yeah, well, that's a little while!"

Aziraphale stops talking, focusing his remaining energy on following Crowley to safety – if that even exists. They can't go to Crowley's flat, can't get to his car. Nor back to the bookshop. His heart sinking in his chest, he had to come to terms with the fact that none of those probably exist anymore … again. If what the demons did to that poor restaurant he and Crowley had stopped to have lunch in is any indication, these demons aren't playing games, they're not being subtle …

… and they don't care whom they kill in their efforts to get to him and Crowley.

Aziraphale came out worse off than Crowley because he tarried, lingering after the initial explosion to miracle the human patrons to safety. He didn't tell Crowley, so Crowley took off without him.

If he hadn't doubled-back, Aziraphale may have been discorporated.

_No_, Aziraphale thinks with a swallow that makes his bones ache. _Worse_. But he can't ponder that too long.

Especially since his brain has stopped working, as has his legs.

He's stopped running, but he didn't notice.

He looks up, peers through the haze to see Crowley standing across from him, staring at him, mouthing something that looks like, "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Of course," Aziraphale slurs, tipsy from exhaustion. "Why do you ask?"

"Is that blood?" Crowley steps closer, examines Aziraphale's clothes. Aziraphale looks, too, trying to see what he sees.

Difficult with Crowley's halo of black fire suddenly visible and searing his eyes.

"Well, yes. We seem to be covered in it, my dear."

"I mean, is that _your_ blood?"

"Quite possibly. I may have a nick or two." He straightens with false strength, shooing Crowley away. If Crowley worries, then _he'll_ worry, and Aziraphale can't afford to worry just yet.

"It seems we've come away victorious for the time being," Crowley says, shrugging off his concerns. If Aziraphale isn't worried, _he's_ not going to worry. He pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes down the sword he's carrying. He doesn't own a sword. He'd grabbed it off a fallen demon. Doesn't want to admit how sick it made him to snatch it from their dying grasp. He suspects he'd better get used to it. There may be more of this ahead.

But Aziraphale and his flaming sword …

Aziraphale was magnificent!

Crowley has never seen Aziraphale fight before, never seen him get any angrier than fussed, usually when something he's ordered comes out wrong.

But Aziraphale didn't look angry – full of rage and fury like the angels fighting in the Great War of old.

He looked concerned for the safety of the humans. Eager to get away.

And tired. Oh, so tired.

He still looks tired. Dead on his feet.

Crowley has to get him somewhere he can relax.

"What do you want to do now?" he asks.

"Fuck!"

Crowley's head pops up, a mixture of amusement and speedy acceptance coloring his face, a welcome replacement for the anxiety of an hour ago. "Are you saying that as an exclamation or a request?"

"As in _fuck_! I think something stabbed me in the chest!" Aziraphale's knees buckle. He falls to the rubble.

"Oi!" Crowley drops his sword and rushes over, swooping in to catch the angel before his head hits the concrete. "Okay, then! I should probably fix you up!"

"Probably should … yes …"

Crowley carefully removes Aziraphale's hand clutching a dark spot in the center of his shirt, struggling to remain emotionless when he sees the gash open in Aziraphale's chest. "Oh … pfft … yeah," he scoffs. "This isn't … it's nothing. Barely a scratch. Have that fixed up in a jiffy." He presses his palm against it and concentrates. These wounds, they can't be snapped away. They're too massive. They've done too much damage. Besides, if he uses a demonic miracle as opposed to his own cultivated power, which seems to be separate somehow, paperwork will file.

And what's left of the horde will know where to find them.

Aziraphale winces as dark magic seeps into his chest, sewing the ragged edges of torn skin back together and sealing them with fire. The mend will hold long enough for Aziraphale's angelic powers to take over, pushing the demonic influences out before they can do any harm.

In _theory_.

It's worked that way thus far on a few other occasions. For minor injuries. Nothing this invasive. Whether there will be any permanent effects, neither angel nor demon choose to think about.

Aziraphale groans, head rolling on his shoulders as he tries to ignore the burn that has started to invade every cell of his body. But the color in his face has gone from ash to pink, his pinched lips are no longer thin, his eyes clearer now as he blinks away the migraine brewing behind them.

"There." Crowley exhales, barely relieved when he watches the last of the scars scab over. "How do you feel? Better?"

"It'll do." Aziraphale grins. It's slighter than Crowley would like, but as long as it lasts, he'll take it.

"I'm glad."

"But after this, can we get drunk and have sex?" Aziraphale asks in that straightforward and nonchalant way that catches Crowley off his guard, makes him weak in the knees.

"Really?" Crowley chuckles. It sounds like a cough – the kind that hides the start of tears.

"It seems like it would be the thing to do in a situation like this, so yes. If that's okay with you."

Crowley looks into Aziraphale's eyes and grins, overdoing the salaciousness of it, desperate to hide his concern. They're fine for now but what about tomorrow? And the day after? If Earth becomes poison for them, they'll have to leave, save their own skins. And this time, they won't be able to save humanity along with them. He'd hate to do it, hate to abandon them and go, but they might not get a choice.

Crowley has to keep his angel safe. And as horrible as it sounds, he'd sacrifice the world for Aziraphale.

He always would.

"Absolutely."


End file.
